Interviewing The Devil
by Caremel
Summary: It's been 6 years and Andy Sachs is no longer the green assistant she was when she worked for Miranda Priestley at Runway. Up for a big promotion, all she needs is one interview to prove she can do it: with her old boss, naturally.
1. Assignment

**Chapter 1: Assignment**

"You know, Andy, it's really only between you and Jenn C.," Lawrence, junior photo editor and Andy's closest friend at work, murmured to her. He was supposed to be showing her some proofs for an article she had written, but they were both taking turns to glance over at the meeting of the managing editors in the glass-walled conference room across the office from Andy's desk.

_Nw Yrk Mgzne_, a cutting edge, monthly magazine/blog/thought experiment all about the issues of their fair city, was starting up a new vertical, tentatively named "Styl" for all subjects feminine, their own version of "The Cut" or "Jezebel." Andy wasn't too keen on the proposed name herself— the idea of the women's section of the magazine being centered around fashion seemed to her to be archaic— but she did want to be the vertical's editor-in-chief. If she got the job, maybe then she could lobby for a better name. And apparently Jenn Chu, the current fashion editor, was her main competition.

"Lawrence! You really think that it's down to the two of us?" Andy pushed back her hair, tying it up to do something with her hands.

"Girl, it's obvious you're the only two options! Frieda is too old, Linda is too new and Glenn… well, Glenn is Glenn. And Harris is a dude. The photo department is already taking bets on it."

"And how are my odds looking?"

"Well, I'm not gonna lie— they could be better. While your recent series on campus sexual assault was certainly Pulitzer-worthy, I don't think the management has a lot of confidence in what you can bring to the lighter Celebrity and Fashion areas. You know Jenn's pieces on how not to wear red carpet fashions have some of the most page views out there."

Andy frowned. "I can be light."

Lawrence raised his eyebrows and smirked. "The frown on your face right now isn't helping, honey."

Andy ignored him. "And I do a great celebrity interview! Amanda Seyfried really opened up about her struggles with body image and Hollywood's high expectations."

"Exactly," Lawrence shook his head, "They open up to you about their issues. Jenn gets them to tell her the secret of their unsmudgeable lip liner. They won't pick anyone they don't think can do a little of both."

Andy shook her head and sighed, actually trying to look at Lawrence's work for the first time since he's dropped by. Andy's boss, Rob, popped his head into Andy's cubicle. "Don't forget the editorial meeting at 3:30— we're pitching new story ideas for the 'Power' issue."

She nodded and smiled her acknowledgement, while mentally kicking herself for being behind. "I think that's my cue," Lawrence said, grabbing his pencil and folder. "Listen— if you want my advice— prove that you can write something feminine and fashion-y and you'll be a shoo-in. Prada and mascara are always going to be bread and butter to the women's vertical." He paused. "I'm sure there is something appropriate you can think of— didn't you used to work at _Runway_?"

—

_Runway. _Yes. 6 years ago Andy had worked at _Runway— _not only that, but she had been the assistant to the Dragon Lady herself, Miranda Priestly. And 9 months later she had walked out, returning to the 'serious journalism' she had graduated from college wanting to pursue.

She had been hired as a junior reporter at the _Mirror_, for the newly formed online version of the magazine, when 'blog' was still a term without much weight in the journalism community. Oh how times had changed. As the online version of the _Mirror_ became more and more popular, her importance to the paper took a dramatic upswing, fast-tracking her to editor. And then after 3 years of hard work, they hired a more experienced, male editor as Online Editor-in-Chief AKA her boss. It seemed a good time to make a switch to _Nw Yrk Mgzn_, where she could be Features Editor and had the independence to pursue the stories she wanted to write about.

Looking at her, it was hard to pinpoint exactly how Andy had changed in the last 6 years. Perhaps some of the bloom of her post-college innocence and openness had been brushed off, leaving a slightly more jaded woman whose ability to do her job was only improved by her ability to see past surfaces into complex and sometimes ugly ulterior motives. She would no longer be taken in by the 'Christian Thompsons' of this world— but she was not longer enamored with the 'Nates' either. She and Nate had tried to make it work for a few months while he was working as a sous chef in Boston and she was at the newspaper in New York, but it could never go back to the way it used to be. Whatever idealism the two had shared pre-_Runway, _Andy had felt much more like a realist by the time she was at the _Mirror_. She and Nate had stayed friends; she would always like his photos on Facebook of the organic dairy farm he and his new wife ran in Maine. Their goat cheese was becoming quite well known, actually.

But certain things about Andy had stayed the same. She still had an unshakeable likability that endeared her to her coworkers and made interview subjects at ease enough to reveal things they may not have originally intended. As seriously as she took her work, she was quick to smile and laugh, especially at herself. Even Jenn, her biggest competition at the office, didn't have much to complain about. Jenn would could call her a little self-righteous, perhaps. A touch self-important.

On a personal level, the last 6 years had been somewhat uneventful. She had had 3 notable relationships, the last of which with a woman, a photographer she had met through her friend Lily. That relationship only last 8 months, however, and she had never managed to find the right time to mention it to her parents by the time they had broken up. It was probably for the better— she wasn't sure her parents were quite _au fait _with bisexuality enough to understand this turn of events.

—

"So, 'Power.' Ladies, what have you got for us?" said Rob Barker, the Managing Editor, looking at Jenn and Andy.

Jenn spoke up immediately. "I was thinking of addressing the ways that fashion and makeup communicate power— the power of red lipstick or stilettos in the office or interviewing powerful women about how they find a personal style."

"I like it," Rob said. "Andy?"

"Hmmm. I'm not sure I'm 100% on board with Jenn's suggestion; it seems a little superficial for the 'Power' issue. Maybe we could talk about what women are actually doing, as opposed to what they look like?" Andy paused and remembered what Lawrence had said about being more 'fashion-y.' "But the fashion industry sounds like a good area to focus on. Maybe we could profile some influential women in the industry about their power."

"Excellent," Rob turned to the other editors. "Anything to add?"

Gordon Dunn, Andy's fellow Features editor, spoke up, "How about Diane von Furstenberg? She's powerful and seems wacky enough to make an entertaining interview."

"I like it," Josh Shokowitz, Entertainment Editor, said, "And how about Heidi Klum? She's great on Project Runway."

"Guys, guys, guys," Martin Shoreman (Nightlife Editor) broke in, "You cannot do anything about fashion and power without the Dragon Lady herself. We need Miranda Priestly."

Rob looked thoughtful. "She's a hard get. We would need a profile and she hardly does interviews. We would need to pull some strings, trade in a favor or two."

Andy looked down at her pad of paper, doodling purposefully and avoiding her coworker's eyes, hoping they would all forget about one little line on her resumé. The last thing she wanted to do was go begging Miranda for a favor.

Luck was not in her favor. "Andy," Rob said. She looked up. "You were at _Runway _a while back_. _Didn't you work with Miranda?"

She sighed and nodded. "I was her assistant, yes."

"Well, do you know anyone over there? Do you think you could get her to agree to be interviewed?"

"Well…" Andy hesitated.

"You wouldn't have to do the interview," Rob continued, "We know fashion isn't really your thing. As long as you get us an intro, Jenn can write it." He smiled encouragingly.

Andy looked discomfited. "I'll try." She paused, tracing her pen over the random circles on her pad. She wasn't quite satisfied with the vagueness of that statement. "But if I can get us in, _I _want to do the interview."

Andy saw Jenn frown, but she didn't say anything.

"Excellent!" Rob said. "Glad to hear that you're expanding your repertoire. Martin, what have you got for us?"

Andy stopped listening and closed her eyes for a moment. What had she gotten herself into?


	2. Memories & Favors

**Chapter 2: Memories &amp; Favors**

Andy decided to walk home from work to allow herself some time to actually think about her next steps. It was the beginning of April and the weather had only just gotten warm enough to leave home her winter coat and just wear her cashmere sweater and leather jacket. Walking from her office was in SoHo to her studio apartment in Chelsea was a pleasure when the weather was nice. She especially enjoyed the cobbled streets of the West Village and the saffron glow of the sun setting over the Hudson River. No matter how her work day might have gone, it was hard not to feel at least a small spark of optimism surrounded by so much beauty.

She forced herself to think about Miranda. It had been a long time since she had thought about her directly, to actively remember what it was like to be her assistant, to be that close to her all day, every day. There was a certain type of anxiety that would take hold when she remembered how Miranda would look at her and make her feel like she was standing naked in the middle of Times Square. And the enormous sense of relief— and sudden emptiness— she felt on that fateful day in Paris when she decided that working for Miranda just wasn't worth it anymore.

She did, of course, stay in touch with the unexpected friends she had made in her tenure at _Runway. _Nigel had finally gotten what he deserved and was serving as creative director at Margate, a luxury accessories brand that had recently received a large investment from Kering, the French investment group with majority stake in Gucci, Alexander McQueen and many others. Andy had last seen him at his engagement party to his fiancé Michael Harper, a well known celebrity stylist. Andy had been so pleased to see how happy her old friend was— it seemed like he was finally going to get both the work life and the personal life that he always wanted. In fact, she had expected to see Miranda at the engagement party— but had forgotten that she would still be at London Fashion Week. Work before friendship was ever Miranda's life mantra.

Emily was working as the fashion editor at _Cherchez La Femme, _another magazine under the Elias-Clarke umbrella with a more gossip-y take than _Runway. _The fact that Emily seemed to be constantly stressed and spent all of her social time complaining about work told Andy that she was utterly enjoying herself. At Nigel's engagement party, she had given Andy air kisses, a quick, but forceful hug and proceeded to tell her a _shocking _story of how her junior editor had mistaken Miu Miu for _Moschino_ of all things. Andy sympathized as best she could, but was also cheered by Emily's undeniable predictability.

Nigel first, she thought. He was the most likely to have a strategy— and the most likely to have sympathy for her situation. She had arrived at her apartment building and used her code to buzz herself in. Her apartment was a walk-up, but she only lived on the second floor, so it wasn't too bad.

She threw down her bag and coat by the front door, turned on her electric kettle and walked over to her desk to open her laptop, all on auto-pilot. She took her phone out of her pocket and opened her contacts to "Nigel." She hesitated. Maybe it would be better to do this in person? It would be a good excuse to catch up in any case. She texted: "Drinks this week? I have an odd favor to ask…"

—-

"Greer…" Miranda's soft voice floated through the office, immediately followed by the hurried clip-clop of her second assistants heels. Miranda knew that this one's name was Bailey or Dakota, but honestly, was it really worth it to learn a second assistant's name these days?

"Yes?" the tall redhead said breathily, arriving in Miranda's office approximately .5 seconds later, her eyes wide with fear.

Miranda looked at her. She couldn't deny the chicness of her black, boho ensemble, but she thought the multi-colored beaded belt was too much. Well, there was a reason she was her _second_ assistant. "Has Mario confirmed for tomorrow? I also want you to check on my car for this evening and confirm dinner reservations at Café Boulud. Do I have any messages?"

"Yes, uh, Mario is all set. And you have messages. Someone called from Alexander Wang and you got another call from Karen from KCD. Oh and Nigel called, he didn't say what about."

"_Someone _from Alexander Wang…?"

Her second assistant's eyes went wide. "I wrote down the name. I'll get it."

"Just email it to me," Miranda said, purposefully returning her gaze to her computer screen. "That's all." The second assistant understood her dismissal and scurried out.

Nigel. She wondered why he had called. Now that they mostly saw each other socially, she didn't get many calls from him at the office. She still had 20 minutes before her lunch meeting—she might as well call him back.

"Miranda!" Nigel was one of the few people with genuine enthusiasm in his voice to hear from her.

"Hello, Nigel." Her generally impenetrable expression relaxed a little.

"Miranda, you'll really never guess who just asked me to ask you for a favor." Nigel sounded rather pleased with himself.

"Which celebrity client of Michael's wants to be on the cover this time?"

"Nope, you're on totally the wrong track. Guess again."

"Perhaps you should just tell me instead of us playing this childish game."

"I'll just describe until you can guess. Huge brown eyes, almost unbelievably idealistic, adorable in a kind of golden retriever way…"

Miranda knew.

"… the worst assistant you ever had? Come on, Miranda, I know you know."

Miranda still was't ready to speak.

"Andy Sachs!" Nigel said, filling in Miranda's silence.

"What does she want?" Miranda's voice came out harsher than she intended. She modulated her voice and recapturing her usual sardonic tone, she said, "I never expected that Andrea Sachs would ever want anything from _me_."

"Apparently _Nw Yrk Mgzn _is doing some sort of power issue and naturally you were the first person to come to mind. And now somehow Andy convinced her bosses that she might, possibly, be able to interview you if she did some extra special asking."

_What a delight_, Miranda thought sarcastically, _to have her back here, asking all sorts of probing questions_. "And what do you think I'm going to do, Nigel?"

"Well, I told her that Miranda Priestly refuses interviews with everyone. But I also know that when it comes to Andy Sachs, Miranda Priestly can be a bit unpredictable."

The night that Andy walked out on Miranda in Paris, Miranda had had what Nigel could only describe as a tantrum. There was a spitting, mercurial fury in her that Nigel had never seen— she was usually one to be dangerous in her quietness, but her sense of betrayal had become explosive. What puzzled Nigel was not the anger (something he had seen plenty of times before) but the strange sense of desperation in it. Miranda Priestly was _never_ desperate.

What was odder was when, a couple months later, Andy called him to say that Miranda had written her an amazing letter of recommendation which had gotten her hired at the _Mirror. _He had never before known Miranda to be generous to someone who had crossed her. In fact, her ability to hold grudges was rather legendary across the fashion scene— some designers who had not played ball with Miranda would never again be featured in _Runway_'s pages, no matter how well known they might become.

Andy probably didn't even realize how unusual it was. Even by the time she quit _Runway, _Andy was still naive enough to think that good things just happened to good people. Nigel wasn't even sure she'd learned that there was any other way of the world, even now.

"Tell her to call my office and my assistant Greer will organize a time when I will be available."

**—**

It was strange, calling Miranda's office and speaking to a version of herself, 6 years ago.

Next Wednesday, 7 PM at Nougatine. It seemed unreal, yet banal. Andy was glad that Miranda hadn't arranged the interview for her office— Andy wasn't sure she could be the confident, experienced journalist she now considered herself to be if she was in the same place where she had felt so young, so confused and so small.

She was not sure what to expect in this dinner-interview set up— how could she and Miranda sit face to face, as professionals?


	3. Meeting

**Chapter 3: Meeting**

During the week between setting the appointment to see Miranda and the meeting itself, time seemed to move strangely. Her bosses congratulated her, thrilled that they would get an interview was sure to bring the magazine positive attention and increased advertising dollars. She tried to write down a set of questions like she would with any other interviewee. Nothing came out.

During staff meetings she was supremely unfocused, only responding to questions when they were addressed to her repeatedly. On her weekly email to the writers she was working with on the new issue, she put the wrong date and numerous typos. On the weekend she went to a friend's engagement party in Brooklyn and drank a little more champagne than she intended. For some reason, she didn't tell anyone about the big interview she had coming up, unsure how to explain the strange tension she was feeling about it.

She got increasingly scatterbrained the closer it got to Wednesday. On Tuesday night she texted Emily, keen to have someone to commiserate about the situation with. Emily was surprised to hear about the unexpected turn of events— but quickly snapped back into her typical tough love persona, telling Andy just how silly she was to get all worked up about seeing Miranda again. Andy knew Emily was all talk (it was said that Emily actively kept tabs on Miranda in the Elias-Clarke building just so she wouldn't run into her in the elevator unprepared), but it still cheered Andy up to know she had an ally.

Wednesday was a blur. She ended up leaving work early to change, unable to focus and unwilling to meet Miranda in whatever she normally wore to the office. Her last act of work for the day was to dash off en extremely hurried and generic list of interview questions. It would have to do.

The act of choosing what to wear was a strange one for Andy for that evening. It reminded her so vividly of when she was working at _Runway;_ she would so carefully choose her wardrobe for the next day, making sure every garment, from lingerie to hair accessories, would please Miranda and allow Andy to be on the end of one of her rare approving looks.

If there was anything that _Runway_ had impressed upon Andy, it was a much stronger appreciation of fashion. Even though she didn't dress up nearly as much as when she had worked there, she still possessed the sense of style that had been planted in her when she was at _Runway._ But dressing up to Miranda's standards would be a challenge, as it always had been.

She looked in her closet. She pulled out a blue and silver tweed asymmetrical skirt, a black camisole and black sheer stockings. From the back of her closet where lay her most prized pieces she grabbed her favorite Tom Ford leather jacket. It was a thick black leather which was exquisitely tailored and always made her feel just the teeniest bi more confident. She put on several chunky silver necklaces and slipped on a silver cuff. As the last piece, she pulled on black ankle boots with a silver zipper snaking up the side. It took her another 30 minutes to curl her hair and put on the appropriate level of makeup, as the simple mascara-eyeliner-lipgloss routine she usually did would not be sufficient.

Andy arrived at the restaurant 20 minutes early. She knew Miranda abhorred lateness and the last thing she wanted to be caught wrong-footed before the interview even began. The table wasn't ready; she was shown to the bar to wait and she found a bar stool with the best view of the entrance so she would see Miranda the instant she arrived. She briefly looked at the cocktail menu and the ordered something with gin called a "Postman Rings Twice."

She waited, finishing her cocktail more quickly than she expected. She ordered another.

When she suddenly recognized the shock of silver hair entering the restaurant, Andy was overwhelmed with the memories of the heady intensity of being in Miranda's presence. A woman who was so _sure_ of herself, a woman without hesitation. Andy spilled a little bit of her drink on her hand as she set it down and stood up to meet Miranda.

While Miranda was being escorted to their table by the maitre d', she merely shot Andy a look to indicate that she should follow her. They were led to a booth in the most private corner of the dining room— naturally, every restaurant in New York would know Miranda's penchant for seclusion. Next to Miranda's polished grace, Andy felt ungainly, frumpy and certainly unfashionable. She was shocked she managed to sit in the seat pulled out for her with out a slapstick-style disaster.

"Andrea," Miranda said, coolly.

"Hi, Miranda, how are you?" Andy's voice sounded strange and high-pitched in her ears.

It was strange for Miranda to see her here, right in front of her. As a former assistant, Andy should have meant nothing to her— but she couldn't help but feel the disconcerting jolt in her stomach that usually accompanied a missed step on the stairs. Luckily, Miranda was an expert at concealing jolts of all kinds. "I'm very well, thank you." She turned to the waiter. "A bottle of Perrier, please, and could we see some menus?"

"So, uh, Miranda, it's good to see you. Do you mind if I record our conversation?"

"If you must." Miranda's face was impassive. Andy placed the record on the table and switched it on.

Andy brushed her hair behind her ear, trying to collect her thoughts. "I'd love if we could start off our conversation just talking in general about the theme of our issue and why we wanted to interview you. As such a powerful force in both fashion and publishing, it should come as no surprise that we chose you as a subject to cover for our 'power' issue. Is there anything you think that we should know about your take on power before I begin with specific questions?" Andy's voice sounded mechanical and monotone, even in her own ears. Was there any way for her to make this seem even mildly natural?

Miranda seemed faintly amused by her evident discomfort. "Power is a paradox: the moment it seems as if you've grasped it is the moment you realize that it wasn't power it all that you'd gotten hold of. Is that eminently quotable enough for you?" Miranda looked around. "I can't quite understand why our waiter feels it necessary to lurk 10 feet from our table but fail to take our order."

Andrea looked around, panicked, falling back naturally into her role as Miranda's number one caretaker and motioned spastically to the waiter to come to the table. "I think we're ready to order!"

"I'll have the Tuna Tartare and then the Dover Sole, please. And a glass of the Sancerre," Miranda said, cooly.

"Kale Salad and Black Bass," Andy muttered. She was feeling the effects of her cocktails and was still trying to focus on her interview questions.

"Another cocktail?" the waiter asked, pointing to her empty glass. Andy nodded distractedly and turned back to her notes.

"Do you feel like being a woman changes the way you are respected in the workplace?" Andy again dived into her questioning, even as it seemed rather haphazard.

"Andrea, Andrea. Why did you even bother with this interview? Don't you _know _the answer to these questions? Didn't you know the answer to this question when you abandoned me in Paris all those years ago?" Miranda's voice was low, but penetrating.

"Abandoned?" Andy's voice was less controlled than Miranda's but she managed to keep it at a conversational level. She reached out to turn off the recorder. "_You _were the one who proved that the only one who you were loyal to was yourself. I put myself out there, I went above and beyond to protect you and your beloved position and then you treated me like a child. And Nigel was just a pawn. Why did I do this interview? Because you are the person I know whose power has most usurped their humanity."

"Inhuman, am I? And I thought you were more perceptive than that, Andrea. As you see, once a disappointment, always a disappointment." Miranda continued to respond calmly, barely moving a muscle in her face. The waiter appeared with their drinks and Miranda sipped hers deliberately.

"I'm not the same girl, Miranda. I'm standing on my own two feet, with my own job and my own responsibilities. I've made hard choices."

This seemed to cause Miranda amusement. "Hard choices? Standing on your own two feet? I'm the only reason you even have feet to stand on. My recommendation got you your job after you left _Runway. _You never would have worked again without it."

Andy approached her cocktail with more of a gulp than a sip. "Maybe. But I thought that recommendation meant I had earned at least some small measure of respect."

Miranda blinked, slowly. "Well, I couldn't have you going off thinking of me simply as the devil, now could I?"

Their appetizers arrived, giving them a moment's reprieve from looking at one another.

"Why?" It suddenly occurred to Andy that she had never truly understood why she had gotten such a recommendation. It was the first proper question Andy had asked this evening, the first one that she didn't know the answer to. "I thought— well, I thought that Miranda was loyal to Miranda. And the rest of us were just the little people, practically invisible."

Miranda looked at Andy, her dark hair ever so slightly tousled and her deep brown eyes wide, ringed with thick, curled lashed. Ivory skin, tinted with pink at her cheeks, suggesting her slight tipsiness, and matching her pink rosebud of a mouth. _As if this woman could ever be invisible._

"Let me teach you something about power, Andrea. You can put it in your little article if you like. What can seem permanent and immovable from below can be surprisingly fragile. Power means hurting people. I've hurt people— people who have been loyal to me, people I love." She paused and sipped her wine again. "I am where I am because I haven't been afraid to break things. To put myself first. We aren't taught to be ruthless, as women. But if I wasn't ruthless, I would have been squished long ago, still one of those 'little people' you mentioned. My girls are doing well in high school, with all the amenities I can provide for them. Nigel, whose life you accused me of ruining, has everything he has ever wanted. Even you, my one-tie short-lived assistant seems to have made something of herself. I'm as self-centered as I need to be— but not quite the devil."

"I never thought you were the devil." Miranda raised her eyebrows. "Okay, I may have thought it for a moment, but I realized, that night in Paris, I thought that—"

Miranda interrupted her, suddenly icy, "So you saw me one night without makeup and you thought you knew me. To see that yes, sometimes the 'Dragon Lady' has feelings, dimensions, emotions, even. You saw all that _humanity_ and you still acted like a little girl and left in a self-righteous huff when things were maybe a little more complicated than her limited life experience had led her to believe." Miranda stood up. "I think this _interview_ is over. I'm sure your editors will enjoy whatever it is you end up making up about this." Miranda began walking towards the door

Andy stood up, a bit more unsteadily and followed her, calling, "Miranda!"

Andy stopped at the maitre d's station to pay for the meal, but they merely said, "It is on Madam's card," nodding in the direction that Miranda had gone. Andy rushed after her, her heels clattering on the marble steps. As she got outside, she saw Miranda standing on the curb, waiting for Uri, her driver, to pull up in her car. "Miranda, wait!"

Miranda continued to face the road and pursed her lips.

Andrea closed the distance between them, unsure of what she wanted to say, but sure that she couldn't just have Miranda go off like this after their interview had gone so off the rails. She reached out to touch Miranda's arm. Miranda flinched at her touch, suddenly turning to face her with a wild and unreadable expression in her eyes. Andrea spoke, "I'm sorry, Miranda. I—"

Andy paused, her hand still on Miranda's arm. Miranda's face seemed suddenly to close, it was the first time she had looked at it properly in six years. She looked as exquisitely carved from marble as she had then, her crystalline blue eyes glittering. Her mouth had let go of its scowl and her lips were slightly parted, her breath shallow. Suddenly, in a moment aided by her 3 cocktails, she pressed her lips to Miranda's, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Miranda's lips were soft, her breath hot. She returned Andy's kiss with quiet intensity while Andy's hand moved to cup Miranda's face.

Suddenly, Miranda broke the kiss and stepped back. Andy had been too absorbed to notice, but Miranda's car had pulled up and Uri was getting out to open the door for Miranda. Miranda behaved as if nothing at all had just happened and walked to get in her car. She paused in the doorway. "Do you need a ride?" She asked, haughty as ever. Andy looked uncertain, her mind still preoccupied with the kiss. "Don't just stand there, Andrea. Get in."

Andy moved, robot-like, into the car. All of the movements that her body was making seemed alien to her, as if there was someone else directing her movements.

"Where would you like to be dropped off, Andrea?" Miranda asked. She was sitting as she always did, staring straight ahead.

Andy gave her address. Despite it being not far away, the ride seemed interminable. Andy stole a glance over at Miranda's lips and then felt so unsettled that she thought she might throw up. What the hell had come over her.

The pulled up in front of Andy's modest apartment building. Andy got out; but as the was closing the door behind her, she paused, turned around and looked back into the car. "Miranda—," the name suddenly felt foreign on her lips, "do you, I mean, would you like to come upstairs? To finish our interview."

There was a long enough pause that Andy felt foolish holding the door. She was about to shut it with no response when she saw a red snakeskin shoe and a pale, slender ankle emerging from the car. Miranda got out, a strange apparition on this ordinary and slightly dingy street. She closed the door behind her and followed Andy into her lobby.

It had been at least a decade, maybe two, since Miranda had last been in this sort of building. There was no doorman, no elevator— the lobby was painted some strange beige color that reminded her strongly of an abandoned hospital wing. This evening had taken a strange turn (although she was unwilling to put into words, even in her mind, what had happened) and it seemed as if even following Andrea up a flight of ugly khaki steps to her apartment was no longer outside the realm of the possible.

The apartment itself was small, messy but not hideously ugly. Miranda would admit that Andy showed some small talent for home decor, considering the limitations she was working with. After surveying the seating options, Miranda passed over the clearly very soft couch in favor of a hard backed chair. Being able to sit up straight always made her feel like she had more control over the situation. She took off her jacket and hung it on the back of chair before sitting down

"Would you like some tea?" Andy asked, busying herself in the very small kitchenette. "Or perhaps some whiskey?"

"Whiskey would be preferable."

Andy came out of the kitchenette bearing a glass of whiskey for Miranda and a glass of water for herself. Andy wasn't sure she could be trusted with hard alcohol right now.

Miranda cradled the glass of alcohol in front of her, not drinking it. Andy sat down across from her, sipped her water and said, "So. Do you want to continue the interview?"

Miranda looked up sharply. "Why did you kiss me, may I ask?"

Andy was startled by the directness of the question. "Why did you come upstairs?" she countered.

Miranda stood up and walked over to Andy and then leaned over to kiss her, releasing all the pent up passion that had been building up since Miranda had pulled away earlier. Andy rose so that the two were equal in height, kissing back with fervor to match the older woman's. Any tentativeness that Miranda might have expressed earlier was gone as she moved one perfectly manicured hand to grip Andy's waist and the other to cup the back of her neck. Andy gave herself over to Miranda's masterful lips, all thoughts in her head banished by the heady intensity of their embrace.

When they finally separated, Andy murmured, "Miranda—"

"Shhh," Miranda said and shook her head. Andy took Miranda's hand and led her to the tiny bedroom next door.

It was strange to see Miranda, so majestic, in the humble setting of Andy's bedroom. Despite all of the strange occurrences, Miranda's hair was still flawlessly sculpted into her inevitable crest. Miranda was wearing a navy high-necked sheer blouse with a stiff yet diaphanous collar cupping her face. Andy gently moved her hands down to undo the tiny buttons at center of Miranda's chest. Her hands moved again to Miranda's side and unzipped her textured pencil skirt, which slipped down her legs revealing entirely the navy silk and lace slip that Miranda wore as the first layer of her undergarments. Andy's hands moved to the straps of the slip, but Miranda stopped her— this was enough for now.

Andy's clothes were pulled off with more abandon. Jacket, skirt, camisole and stockings soon lay around her feet. Seeing Andrea like this, stripped down to her underwear, her nipples visible under a dainty sheer bra with matching silken boycotts made Miranda feel almost sick with desire.

Miranda, seldom uncertain, hesitated— it was Andy's turn to be decisive, pulling Miranda down with her onto the bed. Miranda was stiff at first; with her ex-husbands, intimacy had never been her strong suit and her controlling nature rarely let her get swept away with emotion of any kind. But the need and desire knotted up in her stomach dictated to her body without her mind even getting in the way. Lips and hands and bodies touched and intertwined without either party fully allowing herself to take stock of the situation. Miranda's dry, slightly chilled hand felt electrified from its contact with the soft skin at Andy's waist, stippled with goosebumps. Andy separated her lips from Miranda's to kiss her ear below her Fred Leighton diamond earring. As she traced kisses down Miranda's neck, she reached up her hand to slide her fingers through Miranda's hair. The surprise of Miranda's breathy moan of delight made Andy kiss Miranda's collar bone with more fervor.

The two women continued to cling to one another enjoy the warmth and exploration of each other's bodies, breathing, kissing, stroking. Neither was yet ready to discard their remaining clothing, so matter how flimsy, so their embrace still contained some restraint. When it felt as if both lips and hands were overtaken with exhaustion, the two curled up, Miranda's arm wrapped around Andy's body. They slept.


	4. Good Morning?

**Chapter 4: Good Morning?**

The sun shone in the window of Andy's small window, illuminating Andy's body stretched out on her bed. Andy blinked as the struck her lids, caked with the previous night's mascara. So it was just a dream, she thought. She was, however, still wearing the fancy underwear she had put on for her dinner with Miranda, she noticed as she wandered, still half asleep, to turn on her espresso maker. It was an indulgence, but she loved that machine— it was the only thing that got her to work some mornings. She was going through the automatic motions of making coffee in a sleepy, slightly hung over haze when she noticed something white on the kitchen counter. It was note, in a cream envelope, with unmistakably beautiful penmanship on it, spelling 'Andrea.'

Andy found herself walking back out of the kitchen and burrowing back down under her covers. A few hours later, after some extra sleep, she made it out of her covers enough to email her boss and say she had come down with 'some sort of flu.' Andy lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, awake, but unwilling to come to grips with the world she had woken up in.

Her phone vibrated. "Emily Charlton" it read. Of course, Andy thought, Emily is probably wondering how my interview with Miranda went. She picked up.

After a rundown of what had happened the previous evening, Emily sounded on the phone as if she was about to have a heart attack. "You _slept _with our former boss, Miranda Priestly, herself?" Emily was wary enough to keep her voice to a whisper, but its impact was no less than if she had shouted it.

"We didn't _actually_ have sex… just made out a bit. And there was some sleeping, I suppose." Still hiding in her bed, Andy's voice was muffled.

"As if that makes a difference, Andrea! What are we, in junior school? The whole thing is bonkers, not to mention the questionable journalistic ethics."

Andy didn't answer. Emily saying these things made them sound like the cold, hard facts they were, and it was making her feel a bit queasy with anxiety. She closed her eyes and swallowed. "She left me a note in the kitchen. I haven't had the courage to read it yet."

"Oh my god, Andrea, read it! What are you waiting for? Maybe it says 'Oops, it wasn't really Miranda last night, just a pod person who took over my body.' That would make the whole situation sound much more plausible."

"Ugghhh, why must you make me read it!" Andy's bewilderment at the situation had made her revert to a petulant teenage version of herself.

"Come on, really. Now you've got me here at work absolutely unable to do anything. Grow up, Andrea, and face whatever it is."

Andy grabbed the envelope from her bedside table and slipped her thumb under the sealed envelope flap. After a pleasing rip, she pulled out the small ivory card, embossed with a small 'MP' for Miranda Priestley. It took her a minute to take in what it said:

"Saturday, 9 PM. My house."

Andy couldn't tell if the lightheadedness she felt came from excitement, fright or simply being hungover. How the hell was she going to make it until Saturday.

—-

Greer, Miranda's first assistant, couldn't figure out what she could have done to make Miranda quite as difficult as she was finding her this morning. First her coffee was too cold. Then too hot. Miranda moved up her run throughs, reprimanded Greer for not canceling meetings Greer had no recollection being told to cancel and finally gave her one disappointed sigh and said, "Why must I constantly be making up for your inadequacies, I really do not understand." Greer felt like crying, but was at least relieved that Miranda took this opportunity to retreat to her office at last.

Miranda's focus on her work was unshakeable. She prided herself on it. The big-eyed, dark-haired model they were using for the summer dress story reminded her _not at all_ of Andrea and the spread on lingerie trends certainly _did not_ make her think of the glimpses of Andrea's body she had gotten the night before. Beauty shots highlighting dramatic uses of lip masques and lip glosses were _completely unrelated_ to Andrea's soft, pink lips and their immensely kissable quality. And the fact that Greer was not Andrea had nothing to do with why Miranda found her so intensely irritable today.

At 4PM she realized she was supposed to have a meeting with Nigel at his offices to explore further partnership between Margate and _Runway. _She knew he purposely planned the meeting for that day so he could grill her on the interview the night before, but she knew she couldn't very well cancel. She would simply have to keep the meeting entirely professional.

Nigel, however, had other ideas. "You mean, you left Andrea at 5 AM in bed, asleep, after canoodling all night and just went home, changed and showed up at _Runway_ in the morning pretending nothing had happened?" Nigel said, having gotten Miranda to confess to the evening's activities after the briefest possibly pretense of remaining professional.

"I suppose you think I should have come in, given everyone a rundown of my evening and announced to everyone that the theme of the next issue would be 'Sapphic extravaganza' and that would be that that."

"Now that would be something I would have liked to have seen." Nigel smirked. "And how were these Sapphic extravaganzas that you indulged in, may I ask?"

"Oh, shut up, Nigel."

"Come on, Miranda," Nigel said, wheedling, "I'm not your employee anymore, remember. I _never_ have to shut up when you ask me to, anymore."

As Miranda remembered, she felt a twinge and a smile crept to her lips. "Quite pleasurable, if you must know."

"Oh, Miranda…"

"Could we possibly return to the subject of this meeting, rather than me having wasted all of my time?"

And Nigel could not convince her to let slip a single further mention of her previous evening.


	5. Chez Priestly

**Chapter 5: Chez Priestley**

Between Thursday and Saturday evening, Andy's felt like she was moving through a slow fog. She did manage to make it into the office on Friday (recovered from her 'flu') but her work was haphazard and incomplete. Her boss stopped in to ask how the interview went and all she could think to say was that it was fantastic and she was working on it as they spoke. In truth, the 'interview' part of their interaction was lowest on the list of things that Andy's mind kept running over.

Saturday was usually the day when Andy went to the gym and did her laundry. This Saturday, she made it to the gym, but she didn't get much a workout. Half an hour in, she decided it was too much and she went home. The rest of the day she watch tv, but was unable to stick to any particular channel for a length of time. Time seemed to be moving so slowly until she suddenly realized it was 8 PM. Only an hour to shower, change, put on makeup and get to Miranda's Upper East Side townhouse.

It was strange to ring the doorbell to announce her arrival at a house she had always entered with a key and crept through trying to be as invisible as possible (which she was not as good at as she should have been).

Andy was just thinking about ringing the doorbell again when it opened in front of her, illuminating Miranda and her familiar hallway. Andy wasn't sure a single thing had changed from when she was last here— except perhaps for the flowers, which were of course appropriately seasonal.

"Hello, Andrea. Come in. The girls are with their father this weekend, so we shall not be disturbed."

Miranda let Andy into the foyer and down the stairs to the ground floor. The entered her spacious and beautifully appointed kitchen, an area of the house that Andy had never dared enter— nor ever imagined she would be invited into.

Andy still didn't dare to speak, as Miranda let her to the chrome-topped island in the center of the kitchen and indicated a stool she could sit on. Miranda got out two delicate red wine glasses and set them on the countertop. Then she took a bottle out of the small wine fridge and uncorked it dextrously. "Beaujolais?" she asked.

"Sure," Andy said, still feeling uncertain of how she should be behaving. "So, um, Miranda…"

Miranda cut her off. "I asked you here, tonight, Andrea, because I felt that we should clear up any misunderstandings about what happened during our interview a couple nights ago. I usually would not invite you to my home, but I felt that privacy was essential for this evening and it was a location you were at least familiar with."

"What, exactly, do you want to clear up?" As tension filled as the situation was, Andy was starting to see some humor in it. The fact that Miranda needed to be so wordy suggested that perhaps she was feeling quite as unsettled as Andy was.

Miranda felt heat rising along her neck. She hoped that it wouldn't reach her cheeks and make her blush apparent. What was it about this girl that made her so susceptible?

"Well, I think it's perfectly clear that you have behaved very inappropriately and I felt that I had to express how disappointed I was," Miranda continued.

"Is that why you're here trying to get me drunk?" Andy asked, indicating the wine glass in her hand. She was rather enjoying seeing the ever-collected Miranda Priestly squirm a bit.

Miranda looked horrified and then furious. "If you don't think better of me than that—"

Andy surprised Miranda by suddenly laughing. "Oh, god, Miranda, I know you aren't trying to get me drunk. In fact, I'm impressed that you would open such a nice bottle of wine for someone as lowly as myself."

"Well, it wouldn't do for me to simply serve you the boxed wine— we wouldn't want you to write I was a cheapskate in that article of yours. Or worse: that I have no palate." A glimmer of a smirk came to the corner of Miranda's mouth. She had once again been derailed from whatever it was she had meant to say, but she couldn't help but enjoy the derailing.

"Oh, right, my article—" Andy had forgotten that layer of complexity on this meeting. "Look, I never meant for this to get so complicated."

"You thought this was going to be simple?" Miranda's tone was mocking. "I guess you're still as naive as you were 6 years ago."

"I am not her, not anymore. And don't think I don't know that you're the one who allowed me to change. You could have sunk me after Paris. But you didn't. You let me grow my own wings, chart my own path. I would never have done that if I stayed."

"You think that the recommendation was your absolution? That it meant, 'all is forgiven'?"

"I thought that it meant that you understood why I had to leave."

Miranda's manner was suddenly glacial. "I understood that you were taking a moral high road that I hadn't the freedom to tread."

"Do you want the truth, Miranda?" Andy's voice was sharp. Miranda lifted her eyebrows questioningly. "I was devoted to you. At first, yes, I hated you. But you gained my respect and, over time, you were all I could think about, day in and day out. I thought I just wanted to do my job well— that's what I told my boyfriend, my friends, myself. My desire to satisfy you began to feel all-consuming. But it wasn't until Paris that I suddenly understood. When I saw you, when you learned that Stephen wasn't coming—" Andy paused and took a deep breath. "When I saw you, and your disappointment, I wanted to hold you." Andy looked up at Miranda who seemed frozen in place. "I was in love with you, Miranda."

"Then why did you leave?" Miranda's voice was low and strangely breathy.

"I was no one. I was your assistant. I knew that if I got out of that car that day, that I would belong to you for the rest of time. I wouldn't be able to resist. And I didn't want to be your shadow. I had to be my own person— even if I had to tear myself away from the person I had fallen for. You would never have loved me; I did the only thing that made sense. I admit, my 23-year-old self was slightly less coherent in her thinking. It was only when I kissed you that this entire series of events became quite so obvious in my memory."

Miranda was still gripping her wine glass, her fingers white with the effort. "Andrea…" Miranda's voice sounded ragged, almost pained, "How can you come here and tell me this? What do you expect me to do?"

"My god, Miranda. You invited me here. You figure it out."

In business, Miranda made decisions quickly. She had an unerring instinct for how a dress should fit and how other people worked, even when she might not always see a need for empathy. She never thought of herself as impulsive; any speed with which she made decisions could be contributed to an extraordinarily fast reasoning process, or so she believed.

But it was hard to argue that reason guided her two longs steps to where Andy was sitting and the unstoppable need to feel Andy's lips on her own.

Andy relaxed into the kiss, more easily with the practice only a few days before. Feeling Miranda's hot breath on her face and touching her exquisite lips felt more dreamlike than anything else. Andy was usually prone towards overthinking, but at this moment her mind felt like a delightful blank, letting her senses rather than her sense take the best of her.

As they kissed, Miranda leaved over Andy, supporting her lower back with her left hand and holding Andy's cheek with her right. The position was not comfortable, but neither wanted to break it off for fear that the strange spell that was making this situation possible would be lifted. When finally it felt like Andy's lips would be bruised from all of their embraces, she pulled away slightly and sighed, then looked straight up into Miranda's eyes. Neither said anything for a moment; then Miranda grabbed Andy's hand to help her off the stool and said, "Come."

Andy walked with Miranda. Miranda had not let go off Andy's fingers and with each winding, gracious floor of Miranda's beautiful townhouse, her grip tightened, until they reached the open doors of a large master bedroom. Andy barely took in the beautiful French-style bedroom in tonal creams and grays with the occasional bright yellow silk pillow and the tall bookcases. She was too focused on the apparent owner of that room, a woman she she was still uncertain whether she knew at all.

Miranda's intentions, not exactly vague when she led Andy into her bedroom, because even less so when she reached for the top button on Andy's casual, button-down shirt. Miranda paused for a moment, looking into Andy's face to seek her tacit approval. All Andy said was, "Miranda…" and the breathy catch in her voice clearly communicated her consent.

Andy's shirt was tossed aside. As Andy reached down to undo the zipper of her knee-high boots, Miranda chuckled, an unlikely sound coming from her. "You know," she said, "I wanted you from the moment you showed up in my office with those thigh-high Chanel boots on. I suppose Nigel has no idea of the beast he unleashed."

Andy looked up, smirking. "And what beast would that be?" she asked, coyly.

Miranda's pupils were dilated and her voice was once again hoarse. "I suppose we'll have to find out." Miranda unzipped her asymmetrical pleated skirt and let it fall to the ground, retreating to sit on her bed. Andy followed her, shedding jeans and socks as Miranda removed her gray wool turtleneck. As Miranda reached for her pantyhose, Andy put a hand out to stop her. "Let me do that," she said, as she reached out to roll them down her legs and softly caressing her skin as she did so.

They were both down to their bras and panties. With Andy still kneeling at her feet, Miranda reached out to touch the soft skin of Andy's breast that spilled over the top of her sheer, black half-cup bra. "You're so young, Andrea. I am…" She paused, looking down at the older, textured skin at her décolletage.

"You are so fucking beautiful, Miranda." The expletive made Miranda flinch, but she hesitated no longer in removing Andy's bra. Despite the sheerness having given her a pleasing preview, the intensity of seeing Andy's soft, white breasts with their delicate, raspberry colored nipples suddenly exposed momentarily stunned her.

With Miranda's pause in momentum, Andy moved in to kiss under her ear. Andy pushed Miranda back so she was lying three-quarters on the bed with Andy on top of her, acutely aware of her stiffened nipples brushing against Miranda's bra. Andy kissed down Miranda's neck and throat, paying particular attention to her collarbone and then tracing down to her sternum. When the center of Miranda's bra impeded her journey downward, she turned her attention to unclasping the back of the bra, while Miranda sat up ever so slightly to help her.

Miranda's breasts were soft and pillowy, not quite as firm as Andy's and with pale brownish nipples that Andy immediately began to lavish attention on. As Andy licked Miranda's right nipple, Miranda's hands came around to gently hold the back of Andy's neck and her breathing became louder and more noticeable. When Andy's other hand came up to roll Miranda's other nipple between her fingertips, the breathing turned to small, barely perceptible moans.

Andy continued her kisses down Miranda's soft stomach, pausing to give extra attention to her bellybutton. As she reached Miranda's panty line, she slid off the bed and knelt before Miranda's legs. Miranda's thighs responded to her presence by opening unconsciously, allowing Andy to move in between her legs and hook her fingers into the sides of Miranda's silk panties. "May I?" Andy asked as she looked straight into Miranda's eyes and slowly pulled them down, revealing her sex entirely.

"_Please_." The single word that Miranda spoke seemed all she was able to produce. Andy took a moment to look at Miranda, spread out before her, her famously well-coiffed hair a tangled mess, arms akimbo, her body exposed, down to beautifully maintained triangle of salt-and-pepper pubic hair before her. Then she waited no longer, drawing her tongue gently over Miranda's visibly moist sex.

When Andy's tongue first touched her, Miranda felt paralyzed by the uncontrollable feeling flooding her body. Each gentle, yet purposeful lick from Andy generated a wave of pleasure throughout her body, pleasure that surprised her with its intensity. She only realized she had been squeezing her eyes shut when she opened them and looked down to see Andy's brunette head between her legs, her eyes looking up at Miranda's face with a mixture of innocence and experience that only made her shivers of pleasure grow stronger. Wave upon wave of orgasmic bliss ebbed within her, as every hair on her skin and every cell of her body stood at attention, straining. It took Miranda a moment to realize that she was moaning increasingly louder as the swollen sensitivity between her legs responded to Andy's skilled and determined tongue.

The tidal wave of her desire crashed in slow motion, as she shook from the jolts of energy pulsing through every vein and artery. She felt every bone and joint melt into jelly with a final sigh as her legs went limp. _How could I have waited so long for that_, she thought, as the only conscious sentence in her deliciously empty brain.

Andy wiped her face on her hand and crawled up to lie next to Miranda. Miranda was still in a semi-paralyzed state, but she turned her head to look at the beautiful face lying next to hers, which was wearing an expression of both contentment and smugness. Miranda then looked down to see that Andy was still wearing her underwear. "Isn't it time to lose those, Andrea?"

"I'm not sure I'm been given a reason to yet," Andy said, smirking.

"Oh, so that's how it's going to be. I see." Miranda rolled Andy off her and reached down to pull off her underwear. Off it was in a trice, leaving Andy's dark curls simply waiting to be explored. Andy looked up at Miranda expectantly. Miranda put two exploratory fingers between Andy's legs to feel the wetness gathered there. Andy gasped and moaned, clearly very sensitive to even the lightest touch. Miranda paused, enjoying watching Andy squirm in anticipation.

"Is there something you want, Andrea?" Miranda asked.

"Oh, Miranda…" Miranda blushed to hear her name said in Andy's voice that so clearly spoke of her arousal. "Please fuck me, Miranda."

Fuck her. Miranda couldn't believe how much strongly those words filled her with desire. With her ex-husbands and lovers, it had always seemed like she was the one to be fucked, rather the one doing the fucking, an arrangement that she accepted rather than embraced. And to fuck this beautiful girl in her bed was a fantasy she had never even dared herself to imagine.

Miranda felt for Andy's opening, enjoying the wetness that made her actions so easy. First she plunged her fingers in tentatively, but as moans and a cries came from Andy, she quickened her pace and thrust harder and deeper, enjoying the view of Andy's young, beautiful body writhing beneath her. Andy's fingers played with her nipples, clearly enhancing the intensity of her feeling. Andy's legs opened wider and wider to welcome Miranda's plunging fingers. Each shudder in Andy's body was matched with a wave of triumph and pleasure that coursed through Miranda's.

As Andy felt Miranda's fingers inside of her, she felt as if she was in some incomprehensible dreamland. Every nerve ending of her body strained as she felt tingling course through her. The friction of fingers against cunt was making her entire body seize with a blissful rapture. And to look up at Miranda, her onetime boss and the most fearsome woman in New York, flushed and focused on making Andy come, was what made this better than anything Andy had ever dared to dream of, even when she first began to want Miranda, all those years ago.

Miranda leaned down to murmur in Andy's ear. "It doesn't seem to me that you're coming quite as hard as you could be. Flip over." As Andy hesitated, Miranda spoke again. "Now, Andrea."

As Andy lay on her stomach, her pale ass in the air, her legs wide to feel Miranda's fingers once again, Miranda sighed with gratification. Her thrusting now became deeper and more frenzied, so that Andy's moans melted into one another. Miranda leaned over Andy's back and moved her free hand over Andy's side, leading to her left breast and then the left nipple, which was stiff and straining. Miranda stroked it gently as her right fingers began reaching a fever pitch.

Suddenly, Andy's legs snapped shut on Miranda's hand and she let out her loudest cry. Miranda removed her hands as Andy melted onto the bed, soft and limp from tension suddenly snapped. As Miranda lay down next to her, Andy seemed like she was trying to form words, but Miranda shushed her. Miranda pulled the blanket over both of them and clicked the switch next to her bed to shut off the light. They slept.

When the sun shone in the next morning, the light illuminated Andy's face. Her eyes blinked open, taking a minute to take in her surroundings. She looked up to see Miranda Priestley's bedroom. She looked over to see Miranda Priestly beside her. _Oh God, _she thought, _Where do we go from here?_

**THE END**

A/N: Thinking about writing a continuation/sequel... let me know what you think. This was just supposed to be a short piece, but there are definitely more possibilities to this story.


End file.
